


sweet dreams are made of these

by bogsheep



Category: Epithet Erased (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, a heathen of YouTube only, and crushed by a vent, and got his epithet taken, cause i do, eventually, i crave sylvie h/c like its air, i have not seen episodes 5 or 6 because i am Poor, its project onto sylvie time, remember when sylvie got his bones fucked up by mera
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21807298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogsheep/pseuds/bogsheep
Summary: "Talk to? Why would I need to talk to anyone?""Well," the doctor started, "while the effects of getting one's epithet stolen are obviously not well researched, what we do know is that it can be a mentally straining event. Possibly even traumatizing- I'd recommend seeing someone to talk about it, if possible."She looked concerned, genuinely, and she probably was, but Sylvie still laughed."Doc, I'm a psychologist. I'm pretty sure I'll be fine. I don't need to talk to someone about a subject I have a PhD in."
Comments: 25
Kudos: 191





	sweet dreams are made of these

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Drowsy Means You Sleep When You Want](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796810) by [razorbladetheunicron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/razorbladetheunicron/pseuds/razorbladetheunicron). 



> ^ if u like mine and u havent read this, u should!! it's very very good!!
> 
> I wrote 90% of this at 1 am, then woke up, wrote the rest and showed my boyfriend. enjoy!

The day Sylvie left the hospital, he headed straight home.

He had spent, in his mind, far too long without working- he was practically itching to do _something_ , whether it be research, or a session, or training. He just wanted to _do_.

The doctors had been very clear on him _not_ doing much of anything, even after he left. 

"I must insist you limit all strenous activities during the healing process, and especially after you get back home, Mr. Ashling-"

" _Doctor_ Ashling."

"Uh- yes, sorry, Dr. Ashling." The lady sitting at his bedside adjusted her glasses, looking down at the notepad in her lap. "While your injuries weren't severe, the fragility caused by the thief's epithet, along with the injuries, means you have to be careful not to accidentally do any more damage."

"I'll try my best, Doctor." Sylvie responded. The doctor looked up at him, pressing her lips together. She sighed.

"I'll be leaving to go get the forms, Mr- Dr. Ashling, soon, but first I wanted to ask- are you sure you have no family you want to contact?"

Sylvie froze for a moment.

He hadn't really been expecting that.

"Um- no, not really. I'm fine." He knew that eye contact was an important part of social interaction, and made one appear more confident, focused and polite- but he looked away, out the window, down at his hands.

The doctor tapped her pen against the clipboard.

"Right. So, there isn't anyone who could help you around the house? Or- do you have anyone to talk to, Dr. Ashling?"

Sylvie scoffed.

"Talk to? Why would I need to talk to anyone?"

"Well," the doctor started, "while the effects of getting one's epithet stolen are obviously not well researched, what we _do_ know is that it can be a mentally straining event. Possibly even traumatizing- I'd recommend seeing someone to talk about it, if possible."

She looked concerned, genuinely, and she probably was, but Sylvie still laughed.

"Doc, I'm a _psychologist_. I'm pretty sure I'll be fine. I don't need to talk to someone about a subject I have a PhD in."

The doctor sighed again, smiled weakly at him, then stood up.

"If that's how you feel, Dr. Ashling. I'll go get the paperwork you need to fill out, then you're free to go."

And now he was home, and he could finally do some work without the doctors breathing down his back about "healing," he was finally free and he was so _damn_ tired. 

He knew he should eat- he hadn't eaten breakfast at the hospital, cause he was leaving and also he hated it so much- and what with all the _healing_ , he really _should_ , but he didn't have much food left in the kitchen and even then he would have to go through all the steps to make it and-

Sylvester really just wanted to go to _sleep_. 

"I'll be fine," He mumbled to no one in particular, walking over to his couch and falling onto it.

"I'm fine." He whispered, face pressed into slightly ratty cushions. 

The feeling of sleep, a longtime familar friend, washed over him and swept everything else away.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

_She was grabbing him by his jacket-_

_**God** that was heavy, he was being crushed-_

_The **amulet** , she was laughing at him and then she-_

_His ribs were creaking, she was **right** , he could **feel** them growing weaker and weaker before **snapping** -_

_Suddenly there was a tugging, and it wasn't her hand, it was **inside of him** , oh my God, **the amulet-**_

_He was snapped out of Dream Big and he couldn't breathe, he could taste copper and was that the metal crushing him or-_

_It was **ripping** out his epithet, his soul, everything he worked on and **was** , he wanted her to stop, he wanted to beg her-_

_She was easily twenty-five, twenty-six, and also tall, and kids his age were **freshmen** , he just wanted to go home-_

_Then it **left** , like a plug being pulled, and he was **so so empty,** and she shook him and he felt all of the broken bones grate against each other-_

_She picked up and made his body feel like nothing and he couldn't breathe, and then she **threw** him-_

_That theif was laughing and talking about **something** but he couldn't hear her, or anything, and there was such a gaping hole in his chest, like she had grabbed out his heart- and then she tossed him away like nothing- he was so empty- he couldn't breathe- he couldn't move- he couldn't- he couldn't- he couldn't- he_

" **Stop!** "

Sylvester felt a dull pain in his head as he opened his eyes, adrenaline pumping into his system. His arms and legs were locked up, there was cold sweat all over his body, and he couldn't _breathe he couldn't-_

"No," he gasped out, "no, you can- its just-"

_One, two three, in- one two three, out. It's very simple, Martha. Just try and do that whenever you start to feel panicked._

"One-" Sylvie took in a battered breathe.

"T-two-" The air in his apartment was cold, really cold, and maybe that was why he was shaking so bad.

"Three-" Held it for a moment, before trying to slowly release it.

"One, two, three- one, two, three- c'mon, Sylvie, take your own advice-"

The moment he felt a little bit of control returning, he moved his arms to push himself up into a sitting position. He found himself staring down at the old wooden floor.

"I-I must have- have fallen," He said, as if there was someone else there with him.

He felt the floor with his fingertips. There wasn't any real reason to, it was just there and the last reins of sleep and, as much as he hated to admit it, terror, were still not get totally gone. It was grounding to feel the grooves in the wood, to count the designs arbitrarily, to focus on something _else_ for a second.

"You're okay, Sylvie, you're okay. You're fine." He found himself whispering under his breathe, similarly to how he might comfort a patient in crisis. 

He laughed. _He was_ the patient in crisis. That was kinda funny.

But then he was reminded that he had fallen off the couch by the pain in his forehead and arms and knees and body in general, cause _oh yeah, I just got out of the hospital._

Sylvie put a hand on the coffee table next to him, and the other around his waist, pushing himself off the ground. He groaned at the feeling- there were definitely gonna be a few bruises, but nothing felt like it had been broken again, so he probably wouldn't have to go back to the hospital.

He collapsed back onto the couch, letting his head roll back and hit the wall behind it. 

"So. I had a nightmare." 

He sighed, and ran a hand down his face.

"It's-"

_"...While the effects of getting one's epithet stolen are obviously not well researched, what we do know is that it can be a mentally straining event. Possibly even traumatizing-"_

_Possibly even traumatizing-_

"... fine. It's fine. I'm fine," He said confidently to the empty living room.

Sylvie laid back down and closed his eyes- 

_The amulet-_

And then immediately opened them again.

"Um- Counting Sheep!" He called, and with a soft chorus of _baa's_ , they gathered around him.

"Counting Sheep... make sure no one comes in here, alright?"

They just made sheep noises in return, but Sylvester was pretty sure they understood. 

He laid down again, and closed his eyes, this time the gentle white noise of the Counting Sheep filling the room. He could sleep like this.

He was fine.

**Author's Note:**

> writing is just a game of how many characters i can imply to be autistic before autism speaks finds me and kills me. also i love sylvie so fucking much
> 
> comments are so very appreciated


End file.
